California and the West : Wanted: A Phone to Call Their Own : Utilities: Residents of Sandy Valley, a remote town split by the California-Nevada border, are also divided by telephone service. There’s none for the Californians.

Dressed in her blue-green nightgown, an oxygen tube running to her nose, 85-year-old Rose Rosequist reaches for a walkie-talkie at her side, which responds with a scratchy electronic squawk.

The ailing great-grandmother, perched on an oversized BarcaLounger in the living room of her double-wide trailer, reaches out to touch someone. This time it’s her son, Layne, who’s just a mile or so down the road:

“Son, this is your mom, come in please.”

“Go ahead, Mom,” comes a garbled reply.

“Hi honey, you coming to lunch today? I’m awful lonely. I need somebody to talk to.”

“Sure, but I can barely hear you.”

For months now, the old walkie-talkie has been Rosequist’s link to the outside world. She uses it to call Layne when she’s lonesome or when she needs to see a doctor for her diabetes, breast cancer or emphysema.

Rosequist doesn’t have a telephone, and she lives in such a remote area that a cellular phone isn’t much use either. She’s among a handful of Sandy Valley residents who have been denied service by Nevada Bell, the longtime local phone provider.

The reason? Rosequist lives on the California side of this tiny Mojave Desert community, which is split into two unequal sections by the state border, an imaginary line that runs along a dirt road through town 40 miles southwest of Las Vegas.

After years of providing service, Nevada Bell announced last August that it could no longer accommodate new customers on Sandy Valley’s California side because it had no license to do business across state lines.

“We made some mistakes in the past and gave phones to people who shouldn’t have gotten service,” said Nevada Bell spokeswoman Jennifer Whitty. “But we cannot keep doing it. We don’t have a license.”

That leaves several dozen people like Rosequist out in the cold. The Utah native had moved into a trailer just over the state line in January and was told by Nevada Bell that service would not be forthcoming.

A group of Sandy Valley residents in May filed suit in U.S. District Court in Las Vegas, seeking to require Nevada Bell to provide new service to the 43 homes and businesses that have requested it. About 80 people live on the California side of Sandy Valley and 4,000 more across the Nevada line.

Rosequist and others say all they’re asking is that the Nevada phone company provide service temporarily until the California Public Utilities Commission rules on whether it will allow Pacific Bell to step in and begin providing service from the California side.

A PUC spokesman said the agency has not yet licensed Pac Bell to provide the service.

In recent days, there have been indications that Nevada Bell’s stance may soften. Lawyers for the company contacted attorneys representing the Sandy Valley residents last Friday to discuss the lack of service, but no deal has yet been worked out.

“We’re not being unreasonable,” Rosequist said. “Nevada Bell doesn’t have to dig any holes. It doesn’t have to lay any new line. All they have to do is flip a switch to give us service. And they refuse to do even that.”

Las Vegas lawyer Al Marquis is also phoneless. He says the lack of service has scared away buyers for the exclusive lots he’s selling on his 440-acre Kingston Ranch. “This is definitely not good for business,” he said.

Surrounded by mountains, Sandy Valley’s isolation has been featured in such movies as “Mars Attacks!” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”

The remoteness means cellular phones don’t always work, leaving residents with no other option than to take Nevada Bell to court.

Sandy Valley residents say they’ve always felt like Nevadans: They have Nevada addresses and a Nevada area code. Their children attend Nevada schools, and Nevada agencies respond to their emergencies.

The only thing that separates them is the battered, bullet-riddled sign in the middle of town that advises travelers that they’re entering San Bernardino County. In California.

Marquis said: “We’ve all talked about moving that sign. Then maybe nobody would notice that we live in California.”

Marilyn Gubler, a former state Republican chairwoman from Nevada who is without service at her Sandy Valley dude ranch, has pulled every political string she can--all to no avail.

“This is the handiwork of a bunch of bumbling pencil pushers who made a stupid decision and now are stubbornly sticking by it,” she said. “And we’re all caught in a no man’s land of bureaucracy.”

And so Rose Rosequist waits. Tethered by a line that runs to her oxygen machine, she paces her home--with her walkie-talkie nearby. “I really need that phone,” she says. “I’ve got 22 grandchildren and five great-grandkids, and I can’t contact any of them.

“What’s a grandmother to do?”